Never An Absolution
by skag trendy
Summary: Happy Belated Birthday to Cindy123. Sam cops the blame when a vital piece of equipment is damaged on a hunt. But things become convoluted when their next hunt results in an injured big brother, and John’s anger seems to be spiralling out of control..
1. Chapter 1

**Never an Absolution**

**Chapter 1**

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_**Happy Belated Birthday to Cindy123. Enjoy, my darling.**_

_**A month in Australia visiting family, followed by a stinking cold rather delayed this little project, so I do apologise.**_

_**Synopsis: Sam cops the blame when a vital piece of equipment is damaged on a hunt. But things become convoluted when their next hunt results in an injured big brother, and John's anger seems to be spiralling out of control...**_

_**Limp/Heartbroken Sam, aged 14, Hurt/Angry/Protective Dean, aged 18.**_

_**Angry/Guilty John. Awesome/Hero Bobby.**_

_**Warning: Physical violence towards a teenager. Suicide attempt.**_

_**Many thanks go out to Phx and Sendintheclowns for the beta, and many hugs for all their patience. This one nearly drove me insane!**_

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"Don't you _dare_ turn your back on me, boy!" John roared the moment they stepped into the kitchen. "_Look at me when I'm talking to you!_"

The silent car ride home from the hospital had been strained to say the least, but the senior Winchester was keen to vent his anger at the first opportunity. Sam's attempt to slip into his bedroom, before the fire fight began again, had failed. The blow out in Dean's ICU room had been bad enough to get them both kicked out, but this was clearly going to be far worse.

Sam repressed a sigh, knowing full well it would only piss his father off all the more. The guy'd been drinking again, which meant nothing Sam did or said would please him. John Winchester and Jim Beam made for a volatile combination, and when they started socialising it was often best to just disappear for a while. But that wasn't an option this time. For a start, John was blocking his escape, and to finish, there was a set to his body language that had Sam a little scared.

He stayed perfectly still, his own body language non-threatening but certainly not submissive. The effort of holding back the tears was costing him, despite being so well practiced. Right now, Sam wanted to cry his eyes out, but that wouldn't win him any brownie points with his father.

All John wanted to do, _right then_, was play the blame game, and no amount of reasoning was going to work.

Sam was screwed either way, but he tried.

"I told you, Dad," Sam spoke calmly and clearly, watching carefully for sudden movement. "I didn't damage your shotgun. I promise, ok? Maybe it got damaged in the trunk…"

Sometimes dealing with the Winchester patriarch was like trying to handle a bad tempered rattler, and when Sam found himself slammed up against the kitchen wall he knew he'd lost the initiative, and been bitten.

"Damaged in the trunk my ass! Dean secures everything after a hunt! I trust _him_ to handle weapons with care and respect!" John growled, face red, eyes blazing. "Unlike you! You were the last one to touch the damn thing! When you gonna learn to take responsibility, huh? Instead of blaming everyone else for your mistakes!"

Sam was getting tired of this. He knew for a fact he wasn't the one responsible for the state of his dad's shotgun, because he'd seen John drop the damn thing in the mud after nearly getting his arm torn off by a wendigo a few weeks back. It hadn't worked properly since.

Despite copious cleaning, readjusting and oiling, every so often the shotgun failed, something John claimed hadn't been a problem until the last hunt. But all John remembered seeing was his youngest son picking up the mud encrusted shotgun, wiping it off on his jeans and later 'throwing' it in the Impala's trunk.

Yep. 'Throwing'. His wording, not Sam's.

And this was part of the problem. John barely remembered that hunt, which wasn't surprising given the hefty whack to the head he'd received by a frightened Sam.

As Dean had so eloquently put it, that piece of news, delivered once John was no longer seeing double, had gone down like a lead fart. But it really hadn't been Sam's fault.

At fourteen years of age, Sam should have been worrying about school, girls, pimples, raging hormones and the accompanying boners that sprang forth at the most inopportune moments.

He should _not_, however, have had to worry about being sent out into the forest as bait to a strange and lethal mythological creature. He should _not_ have had to worry about either a) being disembowelled on the spot, or b) being dragged back to its cave to face a possibly much slower but equally gruesome death. He should _not _have had to worry about being eaten alive, but with the _strange and lethal mythological creature _crashing after him in the undergrowth it was kind of hard not to.

It wasn't supposed to have followed him that far; his father and brother were meant to have wasted the bastard by that point, but clearly it had slipped on by them. So Sam quickly assessed his predicament with all the emotional maturity and intelligence of a man twice his age, and _legged it._

When Sam's escape attempt came to an abrupt and disturbing halt in the form of a sheer drop over a cliff, he reverted to plan B.

And it might have worked.

Ok, _if_ his pursuer had actually been the wendigo, then _yes_ the hastily swung tree branch might well have knocked it off the cliff.

Fortunately, depending on how Sam chose to look at it given all the yelling and shouting that followed on later, it didn't. Because the _wendigo, _had turned out to be his _father. _John had ducked just enough at the last moment to avoid being swept off the cliff, but he still took a nasty blow to the side of his head, and to say that he was a little less than amused by it was a laughable understatement.

The whole incident had grown into a huge dark storm cloud hanging over the tiny family, and Sam had the nasty impression that any time soon the weather would break, the shit would hit the fan, and the resultant precipitation would splatter whosoever was unfortunate enough to get in its path.

And he was one hundred percent correct.

Several weeks and two hunts later, Dean was lying in a hospital bed, his insides near enough clawed out by a black dog. The damn thing was eventually disposed of, but guess who John blamed for his oldest son getting hurt in the first place?

The plain fact was there hadn't been time to take the shotgun to a professional gunsmith, and there was no way of replacing it on short notice.

And the shotgun was the most powerful weapon in the Winchester arsenal at that time. High calibre, consecrated iron rounds were required for eliminating black dogs, and the shotgun was the best delivery tool for the task. John's patch job only worked for so long before the weapon jammed again, and at the most crucial and inconvenient time possible, leaving Dean quite literally gutted.

Sam knew he wouldn't be living it down anytime soon, and the truth was he already blamed himself for Dean's injuries, but none of it prepared him for the sheer blast of wrath issued forth by his father.

It was supposed to hurt, that much Sam understood, and he fully agreed he deserved John's anger. He should have been there when Dean took off after the damn thing as it plunged back into the forest, but his brother was taller and faster, leaping over bushes and streams like a mountain goat in hot pursuit. Sam couldn't hope to keep up, but he tried. God knew, he'd tried so damn hard. But when he stumbled onto Dean in the clearing, his brother lying on the cold, damp ground, shivering, eyes rolling wildly in his head, blood pouring... no, _pumping_ from his wounds...

The black dog launching out of the undergrowth had Sam turning and firing his .45, injuring the evil mutt though not killing it outright, but it was enough for John to find his boys and finish the job with a consecrated iron machete.

All's well that doesn't end well, huh?

Because Sam hadn't seen his brother since he disappeared through the ER swinging doors three days ago, though not for want of trying. His father had kept him away, claiming Sam had done enough damage.

"I don't know why the hell I even bother training you, boy!" John growled and shook his youngest son hard, the kid's head bouncing off the wall. "You don't pay attention, you never listen, and I'm fed up with all your questions. You're incapable of obeying orders! I fucking _warned _you..." he breathed heavily, hot breath ghosting over Sam's face. "I told you, someday you're gonna get one of us _killed!_"

Sam tried not to squirm in his father's grip and smothered another wince at the pain in his back.

"Dad, please...."

"Shut up, Sam!" John's strong hand forced his jaw shut. "Just _shut the hell up!_"

Sam's eyes widened. His father was furious, bordering on madness, and it was really starting to scare him. Pawing at John's arms, trying to struggle free only made things worse; in the next second Sam was flying through the air and crashing into the pine dresser on the other side of the room. He cried out in pain when at least of two of his ribs shattered on impact, and the side of his head bust open, spraying blood in every direction.

Through the haze of pain and turmoil, Sam blearily gazed up at his dad, head swimming and his gut churning. John had never been this violent before. Sam had never seen him this _angry_ before. The senior Winchester strode across the kitchen floor towards him, and for a moment there Sam felt a shiver of genuine fear cascade down his spine. He withdrew as best he could, his bruised back pressed hard against the pine dresser.

John dropped into a crouch, a cold sneer stretched across his face.

"You worthless little shit," he whispered, softly. "To think Mary, _your mother_, died above your crib..." he shook his head in disgust, and then said the worst thing a father could ever possibly say to his child. "I shoulda just left you there to burn along with her."

Sam gasped in pain, mortified when the tears methodically conquered his defences, and poured down his cheeks. "Dad... no... you don't mean that..."

"You think so?" John studied him, like an insect under a magnifying glass, and Sam suddenly felt as worthless as his father had declared only moments ago. "Let's see now. I had to leave my eldest boy, _my only true son..." _he smiled at Sam's small flinch "...in the hospital just to drive you back here. He could wake up anytime."

Sam could feel his very soul shrivel up under that white hot glare.

"You hearin'me, kid?" John hissed, suddenly. "_He could wake up all alone, with a hole in his gut, thinking his family's dead!_" Reaching out, he grabbed Sam by his shirt front and hauled him up until he was virtually nose to nose. "Tell me _now_ how I don't mean it!"

Sam slumped against the dresser, and didn't so much as twitch when the fist collided with his right temple, knocking him out of the world and into the dark pit below.

He might not have seen his father's brown eyes roll to pitch black, but he still caught the parting shot.

"_Why don't you do us all a favour, and just die..."_

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Bobby paced the hallway outside Dean's room and glanced at his watch way too often. John's call had really shaken him, and he'd hit the road a few minutes later. His status as 'Uncle Bobby' had allowed him five minutes alone with the injured youngster, before being asked to leave for the next round of tests and checks. Dean was still heavily sedated, and it would be some hours before he showed any sign of joining the land of the living.

John had driven his youngest son back to their apartment and it was a safe bet he was only just getting stuck into the poor kid. Which explained why he wasn't at the hospital to greet Bobby.

Bobby shook his head. It wasn't just Dean he was afraid for now. He'd heard the anger in John's voice, listened to him blaming his youngest kid for Dean's injuries. No amount of reasoning would persuade the guy that _things just happen._

Bobby tried, but John had an answer for everything.

Perhaps Dean shouldn't have run off like that. If he'd waited for his little brother...

_His little brother should have kept up with him!_

Sam's not tall enough to keep up...

_Excuses, excuses. If he'd paid attention and acted fast enough, Dean would've had back up. And besides, the little bastard damaged the shotgun..._

Scratching the back of his neck, Bobby realised he actually felt nervous at what he was about to do. It was the only course of action, because he'd tried everything else. Sure, Sam and John had been at loggerheads over the last few years, but the level of menace... no, _pure hatred_ in John's voice was just _wrong. _No way on God's green Earth was this the true John Winchester. Either it was a shape shifter, or something far more sinister.

Bobby's eyes rose slowly to the ceiling outside Dean's room, examining his handiwork.

_I'm gonna go with sinister._

A shifter was a bitch to deal with. They were tough, physically strong, and hard to kill.

But not impossible.

He'd managed to deflect many awkward questions from nurses and doctors alike, claiming that the Winchester's were an unorthodox family of wiccans, who believed in painting ancient protection symbols over the doorways and windows of the patient's bedroom. Given how other religions got away with special dispensation in the wake of society's fear of accusations of religious and racial prejudice, no one pushed to have it removed. No doctor, no matter how high up the chain of command, was going to risk the negative press.

The headline 'Medic denies religious rites for dying wiccan patient' wouldn't look too good for a hospital that boasted a mosque, a synagogue _and _a catholic chapel.

Bobby snorted softly. _Might as well ban Christmas, Thanksgiving, and gut the Easter bunny while he's at it!_

So The Eye of Solomon was allowed to stay, provided Bobby paid for it to be cleaned off on Dean's release.

_Like he'd be hanging around that long..._

If he was dealing with a shifter, 'John' would walk right under the devil's trap without a flinch... and right into Bobby's silver blade. But if Bobby's intuition was correct, the exorcism he'd memorised years ago would sure come in handy.

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Sam coughed painfully and opened his eyes. The pounding in his skull was exacerbated by the kitchen strip light; it seemed to burn into his retinas like a laser, scorching every nerve ending in its path.

"Nuuuhhhggguuuhhh..." Sam winced and moaned, rolling slowly onto his side, trying to shield himself from the new enemy. He honestly didn't remember the kitchen being this bright. Jagged, broken ribs inside Sam's chest slipped and ground together with the movement, and he smothered an outright scream.

He lay, panting, on the floor for a few minutes, eyes scrunched shut again, waiting it out, willing away the pain. It was an exercise in futility, because every movement, large or small, carried the same result and Sam had to resign himself to living with it. Otherwise it meant a night spent lying on the kitchen floor until his father or brother found him...

_Oh God!_

Sam sat up with a jolt, and this time he didn't bother holding back his scream of pain. White bolts of agony knifed through his head, his back, his chest... not one single part of him seemed to escape the torture. The room spun lightly and the walls morphed into swollen, black holes that threaten to swallow Sam.

Images of his dad, angry, furious, sneering, shouting... gradually came sauntering back down memory lane, and it wasn't pretty. Dean, convulsing in a pool of blood, a large gap where his intestines used to be. Dad, his face up close and personal, yelling in fury, and throwing Sam across the room.

Sam gulped and shivered in distress, gut churning like a ship in a storm, and slowly, oh so carefully, clambered to his feet. Wrapping an arm round his chest to support the damaged ribs, Sam staggered forwards a few feet until he was leaning over the kitchen sink. Sensing an outlet, his stomach finally rebelled leaving Sam gagging and retching helplessly. It hurt so damn much, but what hurt even more was the knowledge of who did this to him. A tiny ray of rational thought tried to fight a path through the foray _it wasn't... couldn't have been him. Dad would never hurt you like that_... but was quickly swallowed up in the blackness of despair and depression that came from a broken heart and nasty head wound.

_...worthless little shit..._

_...shoulda just left you there to burn..._

Sam clamped a hand over his mouth but fresh vomit spilled over, dripping down his tee-shirt. A paper towel roll on the windowsill came in handy for a quick cleanup, and Sam rinsed his mouth out with a cupful of water.

Breathing a little fast, shaking just a little too much, the youngster turned and limped out of the kitchen, heading for the bathroom. Shock awaited him when he gazed into the mirror over the bathroom sink. The entire left side of his face was covered in blood, mostly dried but fresh was still leaking from a deep gash over the eyebrow. His bottom lip was also full, swollen and bleeding, and his nose looked suspiciously disjointed.

Sam stared at his reflection in horror. And the final memory, fuzzy, out of focus, but there nonetheless, came back to finish him off.

_Why don't you do us all a favour, and just die..._

Sam whimpered loudly, almost bending double. The blow was emotional, but the pain it caused was very physical. Sam slid down to the floor, curled up and began sobbing his heart out.

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_Now __**that **__was fun! How 'bout we go see your other kid, huh?_

_You fucking bastard! Don't you __**dare **__hurt 'im!_

_Aw c'mon Johnny boy, let's not fall out. We could be real good friends ya know..._

_Fuck you! If anything happens to Sam..._

_S'already happened, John. He'll finish himself off soon enough, and you won't have to put up with his incessant whining. And boy! Does that kid whine like a dog!_

John fumed, helpless in his own meat suite. He wasn't quite sure when he'd picked up his own personal demonic hitchhiker, but he vaguely remembered arriving at the hospital with a badly injured Dean, and a panicking Sammy. After that, it was mostly a dark blur... until the demon woke him up, and put on a show. He'd heard everything, the vile that spewed out of his mouth, blaming and damning his baby boy, the kid whimpering in pain. He'd seen and felt it all, the hurt on Sam's face, the feel of his young body just as he hurled the kid across the room. His knuckles were bruised and sore, his heart heavy like lead. But John couldn't even cry.

Though he wanted to.

Badly.

_Just, please... don't hurt Dean, and let me call Sam, let... let me talk to him..._

_Uhuh, Johnny boy. Where's the fun in that?_

_What do __**want **__from us?!_

The demon chuckled low in John's throat and glanced into the rear view mirror, eyes black as night.

_You think you've had it rough so far, huh Johnny? Let me tell ya, by the time I'm through, there won't be __**nothing**__ left of your little family._

The voice sharing John's mind grew angry and malevolent.

_Like you did to __**mine**__._

_What? What did I do? Talk sense for fuck sake!_

That low chuckle again, though this time there was little humour to it.

_The black dog you destroyed?_

A small pause followed as it dawned on John just what this was about.

_You're kidding, right?_

_Nope. That black dog was __**my daughter!**_

John didn't think he could possibly have anything to say in response. But Dean Winchester must have got his snarky attitude from somewhere...

_Aw. Lassie was yours? Show me the nearest Hell Pet's R Us store and I'll buy you a new one!_

The demon shook John's head and clucked his tongue, attitude deceptively casual, though John could feel the fury drumming through his veins.

_Shouldn't have said that Johnny. I'm only just getting started..._

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_**Author's notes:**_

_**Here we go again. So John's possessed, Dean's in hospital, and poor Sam... so lost and alone. This story is finished, and three chapters in length. Big Sammy hugs (you know, the kind where he gives you that sweet dimpled smile, lifts you off your feet and his strong arms just hold you soooo snugly) go out to everyone who leaves a review.**_

_**Cheers my darlings.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Never an Absolution**

**Chapter 2**

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**_Apologies for the late post. I meant to post this chapter yesterday but RL and all..._**

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Dean was a very busy guy.

Busy, that is, clawing his way back from Drugsville, and not particularly looking forward to what or whosoever awaited him. A dark, deep foreboding warned him there was trouble just round the corner.

His eyelids fluttered several times, accompanied by a small groan, and finally wrenched open. The obligatory cautious sweep of his surroundings revealed a dimly lit hospital room: nightstand, rolling table – carrying a jug of water just out of reach, TV – silent and blank fixed to a wall bracket in the corner above the bathroom door, window – hidden by floor to ceiling egg shell blue curtains – directly to his left... which lead him on to a self-examination. IV pole – two bags with lines snaking downwards and lightly tangled, each ending in a heavy canula fixed to the back of his hand – stood as a silent sentinel beside the bed.

Dean blinked in confusion.

"What the hell happened to me?" he whispered aloud, voice bouncing round the walls and coming right back at him. If the room was listening it showed no sign, and that was part of the problem.

The soft arm chairs on either side of the bed were glaringly empty. There was no sleeping father, worn and weary, slumped and snoring but ready to wake at a moment's notice. There was no sign of a pale young face, deep set with anxious puppy dog eyes, resting on shaky hands and watching over him in a way that only Sammy knew how to do. Dean often wondered if his little brother even _had_ a circadian rhythm. Kid could stay awake night after night, studying, researching, hunting, taking care of foolish big brothers when they took off and got themselves hurt...

Dean blinked again and shifted under his blanket.

That was a mistake. A sharp, _tearing_ pain in his gut had him grimacing, teeth clenching, breath huffing in and out of flared nostrils.

"_Yep..." _he rasped out. _"Looks like... big bro... did it... again..."_

But where the hell was _little bro? _Where was Dad?

They would've been there if they could, Dean was certain. So there was only one conclusion he could draw. His family were tucked away in hospital rooms of their own, probably badly injured, or worse.

_Sammy..._

The call button was out. No way was he waiting around for someone to come tell him to _calm down, everything's ok; you shouldn't be out of bed, _etc. Without waiting for the pain to subside, he threw back the blankets and hauled himself into a sitting position.

"Argh! _Jesus fucking Christ on a moped!_"

The trick was to get use to the pain. He'd discovered that whilst hiking in a pair of boots a size too big for him a few years back. Keep going and it dulls, becomes a mere background noise, but after even a brief rest period further walking would aggravate the _rub_ and _grind_ of leather against blisters, and the pain would amplify, and virtually cripple.

So Dean kept moving, an arm wrapped round his middle, vaguely noting the heavy bandages underneath his sleep shirt. Out came the IV lines, and Dean draped them carefully across the nightstand.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and gingerly got to his feet, swaying a little when the room tilted dangerously. After staggering the few short steps to the door, he rested his damp forehead against the wood, still breathing heavily, and prepared himself for the task ahead. Gripping the door knob in a sweaty hand, he turned it and pulled. It was a heavy fireproof door, which proved almost _too_ heavy against its springs for the injured Winchester, but with a considerable amount of stubbornness and a harsh grunt, it came open all the way, to reveal a pale, pacing and extremely agitated Bobby Singer.

"Bobby?" Dean hated the way his voice sounded so weak and breathless. "Where's Sammy and Dad? They ok?"

Bobby's head snapped round in shock, but he quickly recovered enough to open his mouth and let forth a ferocious growl.

"_What the hell you doing outta bed, boy!"_

Dean winced but ignored the _not-_question. "Where are they? Bobby please... I have to know..."

"Godamn stubborn Winchesters," Bobby muttered. He was forcibly but gently trying to guide him back into his room, but Dean was having none of it. "You're family's fine. They're just out gettin' some grub."

But it was in the tense set of Bobby's jaw, the narrowed eyes, but above all how he wouldn't meets Dean's gaze head on.

"You're lying," he struggled weakly in Bobby's grasp, then dug his heels in, tugging out of the guy's arms. "I can see it on your face... _now tell me the truth!"_

"Dammit, Dean, you're supposed to be resting..."

"I ain't never gonna rest 'til I know where they are..." Dean cut off abruptly and halted all movement, eyes wide with fear. "They're alive, right? Bobby?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face, and sighing in resignation, the grizzled hunter came to a decision and nodded.

"S'far as I know." Bobby stared him in the eye this time, watching the kid carefully, worried at the pale, washed out features and dark shadows under his eyes. "If'n you _promise_ to get back in bed without a fuss, I'll tell you everything... or at least, everything I know so far."

Dean graced him with a hesitant nod and allowed Bobby to manhandle him back inside the room.

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Sam reached up and grasped the edge of the sink, sniffing miserably and whimpering in pain. Taking a shaky breath, he hauled himself up and groaned loudly. His head pounded, each breath sent sharp pains through his chest, and his legs wobbled like they didn't belong to him.

His gaze once again caught the bathroom mirror, but this time he wasn't paying attention to the beaten and bruised face in the reflection. No. This time he had another goal in mind.

Reaching out and pulling open the cabinet door, Sam cast an expert eye over the various medications: anti-inflammatory drugs, low dose pain killers, mild sleeping pills. He glanced at the top shelf; this was the shelf for the heavier stuff; the kinds of meds that were only available on prescription, but picked up over the years after various hunting injuries and stored away for emergencies.

Sam wasn't keen on the idea of being drugged up to the gills, but his aching body protested otherwise. Selecting the most powerful pain killer on the top shelf, he blew out a breath and squeezed down on the child-proof lid. The movement nearly sent him to his knees; more pain rolled through his frail body, but the container popped open before he could pass out.

"Th-thank G-god!" he gasped, and hung onto the sink as though his very life depended upon it. _Breathe through it! Just breathe through it..._

After few more moments to compose himself, Sam filled a glass with water, then slumped back onto the bathroom floor.

Two pills. That was all he needed.

But he kept on staring at the container.

_...worthless little shit..._

His pain wasn't just physical now. It ran soul deep...

_Why don't you do us all a favour, and just die..._

Blinking back tears, Sam emptied the container, shaking the pills out onto the bathroom floor. Right hand extended, his index finger began slowly pushing them around on the tiles, like a toddler playing with his food.

"Maybe... it's for the best," he whispered. He was alone, as he deserved, no one to care and no one to notice he was even gone.

Sam felt weak, disgraced, a shamed heart in a coward's body. Biting his trembling lower lip to stifle a sob, he placed a third pill on his tongue and washed it down with water.

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_Would you like to see him, Johnny boy? Would you like to see where this takes young Sam?_

John refused to answer, locked as it were, in the dark prison of his own mind.

_Very well._

A glimmer of light in the darkness, like a star in the night sky, gradually opened up, swirling violently and John gasped at the sudden nausea that rolled through him. Then, as if looking through a tunnel, he saw his youngest son, and the expression on the kid's face broke his heart.

Sam, his baby boy, looked devastated. John recognised the bathroom; saw the medicine cabinet wide open, a pill bottle lying discarded nearby, and it didn't take a genius to figure it out.

_Sammy no!_

Unbidden, the demon's words came back to him.

_He'll finish himself off soon enough..._

And now he could see it. Sam had lost all hope, all sense of purpose.

John was forced to watch his fourteen year old son take each and every pill, swallowing it down, taking another step closer to death. Breath hitching in misery Sam cried silently, tears rolling down his bruised and bloodied face.

_Sam... don't..._ John pleaded uselessly, knowing his child couldn't hear him.

The boy began to sway, eyelids drooping, but the tears kept coming until Sam slumped against the bathroom wall and slid down. His once beautifully clear and expressive eyes glazed over before finally disappearing under heavy lids.

John roared in anguish.

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"You understand what I'm sayin' Dean?" Bobby glared at the kid, arms crossed; feet shoulder width apart in a stance that suggested he wouldn't be swayed. "You stay in bed and let me handle this!"

Dean scowled at the guy looming over his bed. "Bobby..."

"Don't you Bobby me, ya idjit!" the senior hunter matched his scowl easily. "You _just_ had surgery." Bobby shoved his face right up against Dean's. "In case you forgot!"

"I'm fine..."

"_No you're not!" _The older hunter tapped the blankets, feeling for the .45 hidden beneath. He'd given it to Dean as an added defence, just in case...

Dean hid a gulp, but dropped his gaze. Guy had a point. No way was he up to fighting a demon a mere day or so after having his guts pushed back where they belonged, or a shape shifter come to that. Bobby carried a silver blade, and the .45 was loaded with iron rounds. With very little information to go on, only Bobby's word that Dad wasn't _Dad_ anymore, they really had no idea what they were up against. Dean pleaded with Bobby to go find Sam, make sure he was all right, but the grizzled hunter refused to leave another Winchester helpless and undefended.

Bobby was virtually nose to nose with him, but drew back carefully when Dean nodded in defeat.

"Glad you're seein' sense at last," Bobby groused. He handed him a thick book, the cover well worn, the pages like parchment. "How's your Latin these days?"

"What's this for?" Dean eyed the book wearily. His fingers ran over the engraved title _Ritual Romanum._

"Exorcism," the older hunter paused to study him. "In case I fail, kid," he offered quietly.

A loud, steady thumping, followed by "C'mon, open up" brought their discussion to an end.

Bobby drew in a breath, stepped forward and unlocked the bedroom door to reveal a tired and angry John Winchester. "Why was the door locked? There been trouble here?"

"John," Bobby nodded briefly, but didn't budge from his position in front of the entrance. "No trouble, but ya can't be too careful. Sam ok?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Damn kid. Don't know what the hell I'm s'posed to do with him." Rubbing his eyes in a very _John Winchester_ manner nearly had his friend and oldest son convinced. "He answers back, defies me all the time, and don't give a rat's ass that he nearly got Dean killed..."

"Dad?" Dean sat up slowly, the blanket falling to cover the old book. "Where _is _Sam?"

John turned to smile softly at him. "You're awake! How ya feelin' dude?"

Dean swallowed nervously and nodded. "Sore, but ok. Where's Sam?" he repeated.

"Don't you worry, son," John's smile grew feral. "He's been dealt with."

He made to step across the threshold into the room but came to an abrupt and jarring halt. Tilting his head back, John regarded the Devil's Trap on the ceiling and chuckled sadly.

"So!" John spread his arms wide and dropped his gaze back to Dean and Bobby. "How dya figure it out, huh?"

Dean gasped, loudly. His father's familiar brown eyes were gone, replaced with gleaming black.

"Ya know, I'm surprised you and John put up with Sammy as long as you have," John folded his arms and studied the bed ridden young hunter. "Would've been so easy to lose the little brat. A hunt gone wrong, or maybe taking off and leaving him somewhere..." he raised an amused eyebrow. "No one would've been any the wiser. After all, s'not like you guys even exist, right? Your little family disappeared off the radar years ago." A loud tut and another chuckle had the fine hairs on Dean's neck rising. "Never mind, huh? I've taken care of him for ya. Sammy won't be no more trouble to ya now."

"Wh-what?" Dean's eyes narrowed and Bobby backed away from the door, determined to stop the kid from doing something stupid. As it was, the youngster was bristling, damn close to leaping from the bed and launching himself at the demon. "What've you done to my brother, you bastard?!"

"Dean..." Bobby warned and clamped a hand down on his shoulder.

The John-demon shrugged, casually. "No more than John did to my family."

That smile was beginning to grate on Dean's nerves.

The demon bobbed John's head, grinning obscenely. "Poor Dean. I'll bet that had to hurt." He gestured to the outline of bulky bandages crossing his stomach. "Would you like to see _John's_ insides? How 'bout Sam's? Huh? Can be arranged..."

He was cut off by an inhuman howl of pain and anger when Bobby, finally tired of the demon's taunting, began muttering in Latin. He'd hoped to find out a little more about this variety of demon, exactly where it came from, its purpose, but this conversation was getting them nowhere, and there was Sam to consider.

But _damn_ this bastard was strong, clinging on to its host like a leech, fighting and pulling back but impeded by the Devil's Trap. Booted feet shuffled and kicked, bunched fists slammed at the invisible barrier, the demon wailing through John's mouth like a banshee.

"_Fuck you, Singer! Fuck you to hell and back."_ It rasped and screeched, reached out a hand, the fingers now spread wide, then curled inwards.

Dean clutched the gun under his blankets, eyes wide when Bobby choked and gasped, falling to his knees. But the demon's triumph was short lived. The older hunter didn't stop mouthing the ritual, even as he clawed at his own throat.

John's mouth wrenched open with a scream, inky black smoke pouring forth. Dean and Bobby watched in fearful fascination. There was something _alive_ and _pulsing_ within the smoke.

The ritual now complete, the black smoke rolled and swept around the room, terrifying shapes forming within its folds only to dissipate seconds later. It curled in on itself, forming a dense black ball, and finally, something else began to emerge.

The ball became an oblong, sprouting tendrils and spinning wildly. A terrible growling and snarling grew louder, gradually drowning out and usurping all else, until the black oblong morphed again.

John collapsed on the floor, unconscious, but next to him stood a huge, fierce and angry black dog, around chest height, eyes a deep glowing red, long sharp fangs dripping with black saliva.

But free of the Devil's Trap, courtesy of Bobby Singer.

"Jesus Christ!" Bobby yelled. "Dean! The gun!"

Too late, the dog was on him, tearing in to the older hunter, grunting and snarling, Bobby's screams of pain dying down with each swipe of claws and teeth.

Dean raised the gun with trembling hands and emptied the chamber. The black dog howled in anger, the iron rounds sizzling where they impacted. It wasn't enough.

Silence fell suddenly.

Dean lowered the gun, heart filled with despair. The black dog limped forward, leaving its torn bloodied victim on the floor, and turned to stare at him.

Bobby wasn't moving. Dean couldn't even tell if he was alive. The young hunter slumped against his pillows, resigned to his fate.

"C'mon and get me, you fugly sonofabitch!" he rasped out.

But the beast kept on staring at him, unmoving.

"What the hell are you waiting for!?" Dean yelled, eyes filled with tears.

It appeared to grin at him for a long moment, as if in thanks for the invitation, then bunched its powerful muscles, dropped into a crouch, and leaped at its final prey. Dean didn't flinch, didn't look away, _wouldn't give it the satisfaction._

It didn't make it. With a screech and an agonised yelp, the damn thing fell to the floor, twitching and convulsing for several long seconds, followed by a hissing as the body seeped like liquid through the floor, leaving nothing more than a large dog-shaped shadow on the tiles.

Dean glanced up to find his Dad swaying and blinking furiously, a blood covered knife falling from his hand.

"Silver?" Dean asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Silver." John nodded, wearily. "You ok, son?"

Dean shook his head and answered in a voice far older than his years. "I'm alive. That's as good as it gets for now."

A low groan from the floor had John kneeling at Bobby's side.

"Hey, old timer," he whispered, gently, and grimaced at the state of the guy. "How bad is it?"

Bobby opened his eyes. "N-not me you sh-should be worried 'bout." A shaking hand came up to fist in John's shirt. "Get to Sam," he whispered, fiercely. "Don't delay. Get to your son."

John frowned. His memories were muddled, some fractured beyond repair. He searched desperately for something, _anything_, but the demon had hidden him and plundered his thoughts.

Dean tried to appreciate his father's confusion, but concern for his little brother won out. Struggling from the bed, he limped over and gave his Dad a shake.

"Dad! The bastard did something to Sammy! You have to find him!"

John gaped and blinked, then abruptly stood up.

Then it all came flooding back...

_Worthless..._

_...shoulda just left you there to burn..._

"Oh God... Sammy..." John staggered from the room, his oldest boy following on with difficulty.

"Where is he Dad?" Dean ground out through gritted teeth.

"Home, where I left him... the demon showed me... wh-what I did..."

"C'mon," Dean panted out his pain, trying to control it, eyes searching his father's face. "Let's go..."

John glared at his son for a moment, about to order him back to bed, but determination and utter fear for his kid brother etched deep lines around Dean's eyes and mouth, and John just couldn't bring himself to do it to him. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure Dean would've obeyed.

Back in the room, Bobby stumbled to his feet, hands clutching at the claw marks on his chest, and glanced around at the mess.

_Dammit. This is gonna take some explaining..._

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's notes:**_

_**And it's a race against time to get to the youngest Winchester before it's too late.**_

_**Will John and Dean save him?**_

**_Usual disclaimers about medical facts, etc. No smart arses, please._**

_**Cheers for all the wonderful reviews. I trust everyone enjoyed their Big Sammy Hugs.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Never an Absolution**

**Chapter 3 and epilogue.**

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**Apologies for not replying to your reviews for this chapter. I was on call last night and it was rather busy. It came down to a choice of spending the morning before I got some sleep, replying to your reviews, or just proof reading the final chapter and posting. I figured you guys would rather have the final chapter, given how I left things with the last one. Hope you don't mind.**

**More Sammy hugs on the way when I reply to reviews for this one... hint, hint...**

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"Wasn't your fault," Dean began, as soon as his Dad finished. "The demon..."

"The _demon_ latched on to a conflict already in place," John ground out. "And that _was _my fault."

_Damn shotgun!_

The Impala swerved through the streets, tires squealing on the blacktop. They were two miles out by now, but it was taking too long.

Dean tried to process everything in his tired mind. His gut ached like a bitch but it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

_Sammy, hold on, kiddo._

"You sure that's what it showed you? I mean, demons lie, right?" Dean shook his head. "I just don't see Sam doing something like that."

John cast a worried glance at his son. "Let's hope not. But sometimes they tell the truth. Just to screw with your head."

And John hadn't told Dean _everything._ He just couldn't bring himself to repeat what the demon had said to Sam.

There was time for that later, once they knew Sammy was safe, but John understood _exactly _why Sam would've gone that far.

Dean stared anxiously out the passenger window, watching for the house they'd been renting for the last few weeks, nerves on a knife edge.

As soon as the car pulled up, Dean opened his door and struggled out of the car, breathing laboured by pain, but mainly by fear for his brother. Ignoring his father's shouts to slow down before he hurt himself, he limped onwards, pushing his way into the house and heading for the bathroom, clinging to the walls, John right on his heels.

"Sam!" Dean called out, steps faltering as his body grew weaker. "Sammy, please answer me!"

The bathroom door was half open, and Dean could see a hand, limp and lifeless on the floor.

_Nonononono...._

As he pulled himself up closer to the door, the hand turned out to be connected to an arm, then a shoulder appeared, followed by a badly bruised up face.

Dean stumbled to his knees, eyes pinched with worry and, with a wince, pulled the kid into his arms. His fingers pressed to Sam's neck, desperately seeking a pulse. Their father stared in horror at the state of his baby boy, his gaze taking in the cuts and bruises, _the blood... _and finally falling to the empty pill container. He picked it up between finger and thumb, pocketing it, ready for the medics, who would no doubt have questions.

"Sammy?" Dean called softly; relieved the boy's heart was still beating, though his breathing was shallow. "Can ya hear me? C'mon, wake up. Quit messin' about!"

"Dean, he took an overdose of pain meds," John laid a hand on his shoulder. "We need to get 'im to the hospital, and quickly. Here," he held out his arms. "Give 'im to me. You're in no condition for heavy lifting."

Dean looked as though he was about to argue, but after a moments consideration he reluctantly handed the kid over to their Dad. Sam lay helpless in his father's arms, head lolling over the crook of John's elbow as they hurried to the car, Dean clutching a cold hand. He knew he was pushing himself too far and too hard, but he couldn't give up now, not on his little brother. The pain in his gut ate at him, until, with a vague sense of relief he sank into the rear seat of the Impala, and gratefully accepted his kid brother's lifeless form back into his charge. Tucking Sam's head under his chin, Dean cuddled him close and rubbed his arms to warm him. Poor kid felt so cold to the touch it was frightening.

"How's he doin'?" John risked an anxious peek in the rear view mirror as they wheel spun away from the curb.

"Not so good," the older brother responded, a little desperately. "He's having trouble breathing, but I think his ribs are broken so I can't tell if it's that, or down to the OD."

_Probably both._

John nodded and stared at the road ahead, wondering how in God's name he was going to make it up to Sam. He'd said some unforgiveable things, thrown him across the room, damn near torn him apart...

_God Sammy, I'm so sorry._

Swallowing a sob, John scrubbed a hand down his face and pressed harder on the throttle.

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To an outsider, the ER staff appeared to be panicking and working at crossed purposes, getting in each other's way and yelling way too much. But to someone familiar with the working environment of an emergency room, it was pretty normal behaviour.

Ironically, such people wouldn't include the orderly, who was mopping up the blood from a recent road traffic collision; he was fairly new to the job and unfortunately the sight of blood made him squeamish. His hair, damp with sweat, clung to his pale face, skin trembling, hands shaking. In spite of this, he was doing just fine keeping his lunch down, up until he slipped on a dark gloop of clotting blood. The result was instantaneous. The mop hit the floor with a loud clatter, and the orderly lumbered away at high speed to the nearest rest room. He was never seen again.

Two such people _were_, in fact, John and Dean Winchester. They'd experienced more emergencies over the years than was strictly healthy, and if it weren't for the seemingly endless supply of false identities, it was a given that CPS would have caught up with them years ago.

Another such person was Bobby Singer, who was sitting next to the senior Winchester, his arm in a sling, chest bandaged, and head feeling a little lighter due to the pain killers.

John remained silent, eyes dark, troubled, and fixed on the ER doors. Both his boys had been whisked away behind them several hours ago. Sam, unconscious, barely breathing, medics screaming for toxicology screens, stomach pumps, and someone mentioned paging the hospital Psyche team. John's ears had pricked up at that. No way was anyone putting Sam on a _special_ ward.

Dean had burst his stitches, not surprisingly. He was in no real danger, but the doc's were readmitting the kid. In fact, several nurses had grumbled quite pointedly about Dean's great escape to go after his brother, and, in John's opinion, quite rightly so.

Guilt rolled through him, churning up everything in its path. He should've carried Dean back to his bed and forced him to stay. He should've had that damn shotgun replaced before the black dog hunt. He should never have blamed Sam for the damage – during his incarceration the demon had revealed that particular lost memory with undisguised glee - the gun was John's responsibility alone. He should've fought the demon harder, stopped it from hurting Sam, stopped it from...

"Leave it, John," Bobby's voice was a little slurred but that didn't disguise his concern. "What's done is done. The blame game will serve no good purpose here, ya idgit."

John managed a wry smile, which was quite the accomplishment under the circumstances. Leave it to Bobby to put things in perspective with a few short words. Out the corner of his eye, he could see the CPS guy hovering round reception, like a damn scavenger on the watch for any snippets of Winchester entrails. John wondered if Bobby's philosophy would carry any weight.

_Not likely._

It was standard procedure to call in Child Protection with teenage suicide attempts, but especially when said teen looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a brick wall.

Thank God for Pastor Jim Murphy. The cleric was a fully qualified psychotherapist, with a genuine doctorate. And now, some not-so-genuine evaluation files on the youngest Winchester. Following John's panicked phone call, Jim Murphy had arrived in record time carrying around a ton of paperwork, including several legal documents that placed Sam and Dean directly, and solely, under his care. And boy! did that piss off CPS guy, who'd turned an interesting shade of angry purple before marching off and making some calls of his own. Clearly he was still suspicious of the small family. He'd reached a stumbling block and there was little more he could do than hang around and wait for someone to slip up.

But this was the _Winchesters_ he was dealing with. There would be no slip ups. They were too practiced at lying their asses off.

Right now, Pastor Jim was discussing Sam's case with the Psychiatric consultant, explaining the kid's long history of self-harm and repeated suicide attempts. Dean was OCD with looking out for his little brother, completely over protective to the point of unstable. And that was laughably close to the truth.

Though it was all a fake, just another lie to add to a whole host of others, John still felt sick just thinking about it and sincerely hoped he could get through to Sam, to coax him back from the edge, as it were. He had no illusions that his youngest child would come out of this emotionally unscathed...

"John?" Pastor Jim was standing over him looking solemn and respectful. "You can go see them now."

John frowned. "Huh? Both?"

A gently amused smile lit up Jim's face. "Dean insisted on sharing a room with Sam. In fact, things got a little intense back there until I stepped in and approved it."

In other words, Dean had freaked the hell out until he was allowed to see his brother. That made John smile.

Bobby slowly sat up and grimaced in pain. He raised an eyebrow at the cleric.

"Any trouble?"

"No more than I'd expect," said Jim, quietly. "Doctors don't like outsiders coming in and taking over, anymore than county sheriffs enjoy handing over to the feds." He shrugged indifferently and grinned. "C'mon. Let's go see our boys."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean waited until the pretty brunette nurse left the room before making his move. Gritting his teeth and clutching his stomach, he crept off the bed and took the two remaining steps to Sam's.

"Sammy..." he cast a worried eye over the kid, grimacing at the wrist restraints. Sam was on suicide watch for the next forty-eight hours, and with that came being tied to the bed like a wild animal. Brushing a hand gently through the boy's hair, Dean regarded the bruises on Sam's face and the thick gauze concealing a deep cut to the side of his head. "It's all gonna be ok, little brother. I promise," he whispered.

Not knowing what else to say, Dean sank down into a nearby chair and cupped the nearest hand in his. Sam's flesh was still a little cool, pulse still a little sluggish. His breathing was greatly improved and Dean was only thankful he'd managed to avoid intubation, though only by a narrow margin by all accounts. Nevertheless, the clear plastic mask strapped over Sam's mouth and nose failed to hide the deep sadness. That part was truly heart breaking. Even deeply unconscious, the kid appeared to be suffering. His lips were tilted slightly downwards, eyebrows drawn into an almost frown; everything about Sam screamed _grief, despair, giving up..._

"Don't you dare!" Dean hissed, suddenly. "Just don't you fucking dare leave me, Sammy, or I'll come after you." A small sob escaped before he could stop it. "I-I'll h-hunt you d-down and... and _kick_ your ghostly ass..."

A strong hand gripped his shoulder, startling him. He hadn't heard anyone enter the room, but then, he'd been a little pre-occupied sniffing and snivelling over his sleeping brother.

Dean wiped away a few stray tears then glanced up at his father. "Dad? What they say 'bout Sammy?"

"Dean, son. Doc says he's gonna be ok."

But what he _didn't _hear wasn't all that comforting.

_It was close. Too damned close._

Dean heard movement across the room; saw Pastor Jim and Bobby discreetly closing the door behind them, Jim's arm over Bobby's shoulder, supporting the poor guy. "Bobby all right?"

"He's ornery and grumpy, so it's business as usual. You should be in bed, Dean," said John, but knowing he was wasting his time. "Don't wanna burst those stitches again."

"I'm fine," replied Dean, voice a little hoarse. "How'd Bobby explain all this?"

By _this_ he meant the state of his last hospital room, Bobby's injuries, the blood...

John snorted. "Mad dog got loose in the hospital."

Dean gaped... and gaped again. "And... they _fell _for that?"

"What can I say?" John grinned. "Bobby's a master conman. He could charm his way into Fort Knox in under a minute if he felt like it."

Dean's grin matched his father's. His response was interrupted by a soft moan.

Sam's head rolled slowly to the side and his breathing picked up.

"Sammy?" Dean's attention snapped back to his brother and he rose carefully to his feet. "You're ok, Sam. It's ok, now. You're safe. Just open your eyes."

Eyelids fluttered and Sam's mouth opened on a whimper, brows twitching as though in pain.

"Sam?" John whispered, staring intently down at his youngest son, which turned out to be a big mistake.

Sam's eyes pulled open and the panic was immediate.

"No... please.... don't..." he whimpered and tried struggling to the other side of the bed, tugging on the wrist restraints, his eyes now wide with fear.

"Sammy, calm down, son," John whispered, "C'mon, now. I'm not gonna hurt ya. It's over now..."

Sam wouldn't, or perhaps _couldn't_ listen. He began shaking his head frantically, panting and shivering. Poor kid was terrified.

Dean gently pushed his father back a step, and rounded on his panicking brother.

"Sam, stop it," he commanded in a low voice. "You're safe. Calm down..." he continually stroked Sam's soft mop of hair and gradually the kid stopped struggling, though Dean could tell it wasn't acceptance. It was resignation. "...that's it. Easy now."

Sam sniffed, tears rolling down his face. "Nononono... why? Shoulda let me die... why couldn't you just l-let m-me g-go..." he dissolved into a fit of painful sobs and turned his face away.

"Sammy, no!" John's voice broke, and he reached out to palm Sam's jaw, but the kid flinched away from him.

"Dad," Dean waved a hand in front of John's distraught face. "Maybe you should leave. Just for a little while," he added quickly. "Sam's not himself, still out of it from the overdose. Let me talk to him, ok? I'll explain everything."

John blinked, and nodded slowly, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Uh... yeah. Yeah, you're right." He turned to go but added "Just be sure he knows I love him? Please?"

"You know I will, Dad."

With one last mournful glance at the sad figure on the bed, John Winchester quietly left the room.

Dean sighed heavily. He didn't know how to fix this. Even before the demon possession, Dad had been pretty hard on Sam, blaming him for the shotgun, bawling him out for not paying attention... the usual shit.

But he... _they_ had to try. For Sam's sake.

The kid in question was still whimpering softly, lips moving soundlessly _nonononono..._

"Sam, hey! Look at me." Dean waited nervously until he had the boy's attention. Sam blinked up at him, biting his bottom lip. "I know you're scared, and I know you're hurt..."

Sam shook his head. "Y-you got h-hurt 'cos of me. Dad told me... h-he t-told me..." another shaky sniff "Dad s-said..." but he couldn't continue under the fresh flood of tears.

"Sam, listen, dude," Dean gave his hand a gentle shake. "That wasn't Dad, ok? He was possessed."

Sam quieted down. "Wh-what? How? When?"

Dean nodded. "Turns out some black dogs are shape shifting demons. Kinda like hell hounds, only more versatile. Bobby and I didn't figure that part out until we exorcised the bastard right out of Dad." He snorted without humour. "And that was the real kicker. 'Cos the damn thing flew right out of the Devil's Trap, then went after me and Bobby."

His little brother gasped and gripped Dean's hand so tightly it threatened to cut off his circulation. "You guys ok? You're not hurt or anything?"

Dean smiled. "Bobby got a little scratched up, but otherwise we're fine."

But Sam obviously didn't feel reassured because he tightened his grip further and stared up at Dean with wide, fearful eyes.

"Sam, it's ok..."

"No it's not!" Sam suddenly yelled out. "It's not ok! Stop saying that!"

"Sam..."

"It's not ok. If I'd known I coulda stopped him!" The kid gulped, shuddered and began yelling again, back arching off the bed, arms tugging on the restraints. "If I'd been a better hunter in the first place, none of this woulda _happened!_"

"Sammy, stop it!" Dean hissed, angrily, and gently pinned the boy down before he could hurt himself. The last thing he wanted to do was further aggravate Sam's damaged ribs. "You couldn't have known, and even if you had it wouldn't have made any difference!"

Loosening the restraints a little, he lifted his struggling brother, and carefully slid behind him on the bed.

Dean's newly stitched stomach complained bitterly at the harsh treatment, but at least some heavy duty pain killers taken an hour previously had taken the edge off. Without it, he'd have been a whimpering ball of agony on the floor.

"You don't get it!" Sam snarled and wriggled in his big brother's arms. "I know the Ritual Romanum verbatim! I could've exorcised it myself before it got to you... you were hurt... y-you couldn't defend yourself..."

"I had Bobby watching out for me, Sam," Dean finally managed to hold him still, arms round his waist and crossed over Sam's stomach. "If you'd tried anything..." he smothered a small gulp of fear "it woulda _killed_ you, Sammy. You were damn lucky as it was..."

Sam slumped in defeat, sobbing quietly. "You call this lucky?" he whispered sadly.

"You're alive," Dean rested his chin on Sam's scalp. "I call that pretty damn lucky. You were unconscious and barely breathing when we found you... you tried to _kill_ yourself! Have you any idea what that did to me? What it did to Dad and Bobby?"

Sam fell silent, and Dean hummed in frustration. He needed to see Sammy's face, but right now Sam needed the physical contact more.

"Just promise me somethin'," Dean whispered, and waited anxiously for a response.

"Wh-what?" Sam sounded more than a little ashamed, and that made Dean's heart sink. It wasn't his intention to make the kid feel even worse than he already did.

"Promise me you won't do that again?" said Dean, wary of the answer. "None of us coulda lived with ourselves if you'd succeeded."

"Dad could," Sam whispered back; Dean leaned over just enough to see the quivering bottom lip.

"Dad loves you, kiddo. I know he's not the easiest person to get along with, but he does love you," he replied. "Shoulda seen him when we found you on the bathroom floor. Last time I saw the guy that heartbroken... was the night Mom died."

A tiny pause followed.

"Really?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"Really." Dean confirmed with a smile. "Guy blames himself for not being able to fight the demon; he had to watch it hurt you over and over... that's gonna take him a while to work through, Sammy. I think he's gonna need you to help him. You're gonna need to help each other. Would that be ok?"

A longer pause, during which Dean held his breath.

"Uh... yeah. That'd be ok, I guess."

The older brother felt the boy nod and quietly emptied his lungs. It was a cheap shot, asking Sam to help Dad, knowing the kid was too soft hearted to turn his back, but Dean was convinced it would work. Sam and Dad working together could only be a good thing, provided the two were honest with each other.

Dean hugged his little brother closer to his chest. "That's ma boy."

They talked for a while longer, Sam seeking reassurance, Dean providing comfort as best he could.

"_I_ owe you an apology Sam."

"Wha-what for?" The kid sounded genuinely surprised.

"I shouldn't have taken off like that, after the black dog, I mean," said Dean, softly. "It was stupid, dangerous, and set a bad example. I deserved to get hurt, but I'm so sorry you got the blame for my ego trip. Wasn't your fault, ok? _Never_ your fault."

Sam's nod wasn't convincing. "O-ok."

"Sam?" Dean's voice hardened a little.

Sam sighed. "Yeah, ok. Just hope Dad sees it that way."

"Speaking of which, you ready to see him now?" Dean asked, hopefully. "He's probably wearing a groove in the floor outside this room."

"S-sure... uh, I mean... yeah. I'll see 'im." Sam's wrists shifted nervously in their cuffs. "But... I'd like to talk to him alone."

Sam sounded a little scared but seemed determined to do it anyway. Kid sure was brave.

"Not a problem, little dude. I'll be right outside if you need me."

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

John swung round when he heard the door to Sam's room creak open. He gazed hopefully at his oldest son, silently _asking..._

Dean nodded, his face giving nothing away. "Sam wants to see you."

John sighed in relief but Dean stopped him with a hand to his chest.

"Just go easy on 'im, huh? He blames himself for, well, pretty much everything."

His father looked terrible, like his world had nearly fallen apart. "I know. I remember what the demon said to him," he glanced at the doorway. "Dya think he'll ever be ok after this?"

Dean pursed his lips to cover a smile. "With your help? Eventually, yeah."

He watched as his very nervous Dad slowly trudged into Sam's room, the door closing quietly in his wake.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Sam gazed at his father, nibbling on his bottom lip shyly when the Winchester patriarch sat down in the seat previously occupied by Dean.

Neither knew what to say and each was reluctant to begin the conversation. In the end, the responsibility fell to John. It was just too painful watching Sam beat himself over the head trying to find the words. And in any case, John felt he owed it to the poor kid.

"I was awake for some of it," he began, staring Sam straight in the eye. "S'how the demon got its' kicks, forcing me to watch."

Sam nodded encouragingly.

John smiled a little, a silent _'thank you for giving me this chance'._

"I was a spectator, watching you get hurt. I felt your bones snap, your blood warm on my hands, and I couldn't stop it," John's vision grew blurry until he blinked a few times. "God knows, I tried, Sammy. I promise you, I fought it but the bastard was locked down in me so tightly."

"S'ok, Dad," Sam whispered. "I understand. It wasn't your fault."

"No... it _was_," John insisted, frustrated with himself. "I'm so sorry I wasn't strong enough, that you got hurt and I couldn't stop it... you have to know, I would never harm you, Sammy. You're my son, my baby boy and I love you so damn much..."

Sam's eyes widened and filled with tears. It wasn't often – _try hardly ever_ - that either brother heard their father say it out loud. "L-love you too, Dad."

He tried to wipe away a tear but his hands were still restrained. Sad eyes stared up at John, and he tugged on the cuffs. "Please?" Sam begged in a small voice. "I promise I won't do anything stupid." Then added, morosely "for once."

"Aw, Sammy..." John didn't hesitate, just unbuckled the restraints, tossed them aside and very carefully gathered the youngster into his arms. "You're not stupid. You're not worthless. You're a great kid with a big heart, and when we found you in the bathroom, and I realised the demon had shown me the truth, I wanted to die."

"What?" Sam leaned back a little to stare at his father. "What dya mean it _showed _you?"

John nodded and cupped the back of Sam's neck, stroking his soft curls. He spoke quietly, not wanting to scare the kid, or upset him any more than he clearly already was. "On the way back to the hospital, somehow it showed me what you were doing to yourself in the bathroom. I hoped like hell it was lying, but when we found you..." John broke off, only partially successful in stifling a sob. Taking a deep breath and fortifying his resolve, he struggled onwards. "It told me something else, Sam. The shotgun? I know it was me; I damaged it. But somehow I forgot and blamed you instead. I'm so sorry, kiddo."

"S'ok, Dad," Sam snuffled a little and pressed his face into John's shirt. "You were concussed, even I could see that."

"Well, Pastor Jim's got a new one on order," John smiled and brushed a small featherlike kiss over Sammy's hair. "I may have to order a new ear, too, 'cos he just about chewed it off when he found out."

"Why?" Sam wondered aloud, and secretly wished he could've seen that. It wasn't every day Sam got to watch his Dad getting bawled out.

John chuckled, as though he'd read Sam's mind. "Told me I shoulda contacted him about it as soon as it got damaged, said it was my damn pride and selfishness stood in the way as usual." He sighed. "And he's right. As always."

They fell silent for a few minutes, just enjoying the rare moment of closeness. John resisted the urge to rock his son, unsure Sam ribs would hold up; it was enough just to have the boy there with him. Alive and healing.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"What the hell for? You didn't do anything wrong."

"For t-takin' those p-pills. It was stupid, pathetic..." Sam shuddered. "M'such a coward. You must be pretty disappointed..."

"What?!" John froze. Pulling back again, he stared at the youngster in disbelief. "Disappointed? Sam, I was many things: scared, angry, heartbroken... but never _disappointed_." John tenderly smoothed Sam's hair down behind his ears. "You'd just been thrown across the room and emotionally ripped to pieces by someone you trusted to never hurt you. Sam... I told you to just _die!_" He shook his head, eyes welling up again. "I hate that you tried to take your own life, but you didn't know I was possessed, you were carrying way too much guilt over Dean's injuries, had no idea if he was going to live, I'd kept you from seeing him... Sammy, just promise me that if you ever feel that way again, you'll talk to Uncle Bobby, or Pastor Jim, or, when he's not laid up in hospital, your brother."

Sam nodded, slowly. "He was pretty scared, huh? Dean, I mean."

John smiled. "Scared don't even come close. He loves you so much, kiddo, I don't think he'd have lived much longer if we hadn't got to you in time."

Sam gulped when that sank in. "You mean..."

"Yep," his father nodded sadly. "You're the reason he keeps on going, why he never gives up."

"Oh God!" Sam cried out in despair, realising what he'd almost done. "He never said... I didn't... what... no... he..."

The child broke down and sobbed loudly in his father's arms.

"Shhh Sammy. S'not your fault," John rubbed his back in gentle circles. "Just let it out, kid. Let it out..."

A few minutes later, Sam was wiping his face on a Kleenex, his Dad watching him fondly. The boy looked all of five years old, sniffing, blowing his nose loudly, and scrubbing at his eyes.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"I haven't told Dean what the demon said to me. Not sure I'm going to."

John considered that for a moment. "It's up to you Sammy. Whatever you feel comfortable with, so long as you ain't holding back just to protect me from your brother," and though he grinned at that, John meant every word. Didn't matter it was the demon's words; it was John's _voice _that delivered them.

Sam shook his head slightly. "Nah. For Dean's sake. I think it would hurt him just as much as it hurt me at the time."

Dean, in spite of his reluctance for chick-flick moments, was particularly empathic when it came to his little brother. Hearing what the demon had thrown at Sam would cause more harm than good; Dean would fume, pace, and basically guilt himself to death over it. The last thing he needed right now, given his injuries.

John silently congratulated the youngster's wisdom. "True enough. Maybe when he's feeling better."

A knock at the door caught their attention.

"Come in!" Sam called out and glanced at his Dad.

Pastor Jim appeared with someone bundled up in a blanket and snoring in his arms. "Sorry to interrupt, but I think this one needs his bed." Crossing the room, he carefully laid his burden down on other bed, and shifted the blanket to reveal Dean, fast asleep and drooling obscenely. The Pastor covered him over and adjusted the pillow under his head. "He's due some more pain killers in a couple hours."

Sam blushed guiltily. No way should his brother've even been out of bed, let alone out of the room. "Shit! What was I thinking?"

The Pastor grinned. "Don't you worry, young Sam. There was nothing you could have done to keep him in bed, short of drugs or" he indicated Sam's discarded restraints "and I'm not entirely sure they would've worked anyhow. Probably bust right out of 'em."

"More than likely! The damned idgit" Bobby announced from the doorway, voice rough and hoarse with weariness.

Sam forced a grin of his own, but swallowed hard when he saw the blood stained bandages criss-crossing Bobby's chest. It didn't go unnoticed either, because Bobby fixed Sam with a glare.

"Don't you do that to yaself, kid," the older hunter warned. "Don't you go blamin' yaself for me. I'm big enough and ugly enough," he ignored John's muttered _got that damn straight_ and Sam's smothered snigger "to watch out for my own skin. If'n I get hurt then that's down to me alone. No sense in borrowin' trouble."

"Guy's gotta point there Sammy." John cleared his throat and grasped Sam's blanket, pulling it up to his chin. "And now, seeing as Dean's out for the count, I think we've kept you up long enough."

"But Dad..."

"Forget it, kid. Get some sleep. We're heading out to Pastor Jim's in the morning."

"Really? Cool!"

It was a decision kind of forced on them. The CPS guy was continually sniffing round, bugging Pastor Jim and generally being a pain in the ass. In any case, Blue Earth was only around three hours away, and the boys would certainly be more comfortable there than in hospital. John also didn't think it would hurt Sam and Dean to spend some time with the Pastor. The quietly spoken cleric was easy to talk to, with a great sense of humour and a peaceful countenance. He'd need it in order to deal with his parish, the hunt, and two teenage boys with more energy than a case of Red Bull.

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

Dean stared out the lounge window across the graveyard, drinking in the peace and tranquillity. It wasn't rare to find an untroubled graveyard but it wasn't exactly common either. But this graveyard was tended to by a hunter. No way was Casper coming back from the dead _here._

Pastor Jim was busy in the chapel, Dad was at the library, and Bobby was resting in one of the many guest rooms of Blue Earth Rectory.

Sam, however... Dean smiled and tenderly brushed some hair out of the kid's eyes. His little brother made a cute _wffl_ noise, and snuggled down further in his blanket. The boys were both on compulsory long term bed rest, especially Dean, but their father had consented to them watching TV _provided_ they kept warm and stayed off their feet. And so Sam was screwed up in a loose ball of long limbs and floppy hair, head resting on Dean's lap. The slow sweep of Dean's fingers through his hair had sent him off to sleep twenty minutes ago.

Dean hadn't slept much since coming here. After three weeks, his gut was still stiff and sore but the pain killers were keeping the worst at bay. It went far deeper than that. Every time he closed his eyes, Dean saw his little brother on that bathroom floor, barely alive, the empty pill container nearby. It never failed to send him straight back into the land of the living gasping for breath, sweat soaking the sheets and heart pounding like a runaway horse.

The only time Dean ever left Sam's side was to use the bathroom, but he still didn't get sick of the sight of him...

"D'n?" a sleep laden voice broke through his thoughts. Sam rolled over a little and rubbed his eyes. "You ok?"

Dean stared at him for a long while. _Why Sam? Why dya do it?_

He already had a fair idea, but couldn't bring himself to ask. Sam would talk when he was ready.

"I'm fine, runt. Just a little restless," Dean rolled his eyes. "Can't stand all this damn _resting_. Not my style, dude," he flexed his biceps meaningfully.

Sam let out a soft laugh. "Yeah. 'Cause you're in any condition to be running the four minute mile or whuppin' some poltergeist ass."

"Hey!" his brother protested. "I can soon whup _your_ ass, bitch!"

"Yeah right," Sam shrugged off the blanket and rolled off the sofa. "Like ta see ya try it, jerk!"

A half hearted swipe at Sam's head was all it took to deflate the older brother. Dean groaned loudly and slumped back in the cushions. "God! Kill me now!"

Grinning from ear to ear, Sam reached out and ruffled Dean's hair, earning a deep growl of disapproval.

"_Sam! Do that again, and I swear I'll..."_

"What?" taunted Sam, moving just out of reach when a booted foot swung a little too close. "What'll you do, Dean?"

Dean scowled. "I'll... I'll..." a slow grin worked its way onto his face. "Sit here, and _complain_. Yeah, I'll whine about the food, bitch about the game on TV..."

"What game?" Sam's brow furrowed in confusion.

Dean held up the remote. "Baseball. They're showing all the highlights from the last twenty years." Eyebrows wiggled up and down. "Should be fun, huh Sammy?"

"You wouldn't!" Sam preferred soccer any day of the week. As far as he was concerned, a night of watching baseball was equivalent to an eternity in hell.

"Oh wouldn't I?" Dean's grin widened when he took in the troubled expression on Sam's face. His little brother was dying to tackle Dean for the TV remote but didn't want to hurt him. _This could be profitable._

Coughing lightly and clutching at his stomach, Dean's grin suddenly faded. "Ow!"

It worked like a charm.

"Dean?" Sam stepped closer and brought out the puppy dog eyes. "Do you need your meds? I can get them for you."

"N-no, it's ok," Dean rolled his head to the side, a perfect fake grimace on his face that almost threatened to crumble when Sam stepped closer yet again. He waited for just the right moment..._ Just a little bit closer..._

_Ah. Perfect..._

Sam crouched down beside Dean, a hand on his shoulder, and the next moment he was on his back, pinned to the couch and blinking up at his big brother. Dean offered him a bright smile, and promptly began tickling the kid's feet. Sam giggled until he gasped for breath, his injured ribs complaining loudly.

"D-Dean... ow...OW, please st-top."

Dean stopped immediately.

"Truce?"

"Truce."

Sam sat up and stared down at his feet. When Dean leaned in he spotted the lone tear on his brother's face, and felt mortified.

"Aw, shit, Sammy, I didn't mean to..."

"No, it's not that," Sam sniffed angrily.

"Then what?" asked Dean, anxiously.

"Uh... that demon?" Sam looked up at him. "It... uh... said some things..."

"Ok," Dean took a breath and curled an arm round the kid's shoulders. _Here we go... finally!_

"S-said I'm worthless... that it... that _Dad_ shoulda left me to burn along with Mom," Sam shivered harshly. "It said that you were Dad's only true son." His eyes filled with fresh tears that spilled down his face. "What dya think he meant by that? I mean... I'm your brother, right? Son of John and Mary Winchester?"

Dean stared at him, utterly perplexed. "Of _course_ you are! Sammy, you know that wasn't Dad, right? Demons lie...

"To mess with your head, yeah I know that part," Sam began gnawing on his lip and Dean could sense his fear and frustration levels rising. "But... what if it was just taking what it knew from Dad's thoughts and memories? Maybe Dad _really_ thinks that way about me!"

"No fucking way, Sam!" Dean insisted. "He loves you..."

"Yeah, I believe that. I do." Sam wouldn't let it go. "But..."

"No buts, Sam," his brother cut him off. "He... _we_ love you. You're not worthless, not to us." Dean sighed and rubbed Sam's shoulder. "Kid, the minute you start listening to demons, and I mean _really_ listening, that's when you've lost the battle. But when you start believing their bullshit? That's when you've lost the war."

Sam appeared to think about that. "Yeah, ok." He nodded slowly. "I get it." _I think._

But Dean wasn't stupid. His brother's confidence had been shaken, very possibly broken, and only with time and patience would it heal. And the fact he'd finally admitted his fears was a step in the right direction.

"It'll be ok, Sammy," Dean whispered and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "I'm right here with you, and so's Dad. You took a hit but you got right back up. _You're_ my brother all right. John and Mary Winchester's youngest son."

Sam nodded again, and rested his head on Dean's shoulder. "Thanks Dean."

"Nothin' to thank me for, Kiddo. I'm just glad you're still here." _With me._

_**The End.**_

_**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**_

_**Author's notes:**_

_**Our poor, sweet Sam's got a way to go before his broken heart is fully recovered, but his wonderful big brother is there every step of the way to reassure him, and it looks like John will be too.**_

_**Cheers for all your reviews, my darlings. Much appreciated.**_

_**Kind regards,**_

_**ST xxx**_


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